Page 57 of Freefall

“One,” I choke out.

He focuses on the same side, raining down slap after stinging slap.

“Two, three, four, five.”

He rubs the skin, and I pray that when he starts up again, he at least switches sides. But he doesn’t start again. Instead, his hand dips lower until he’s cupping me.

“You’re so fucking wet.” He leans over, his hard body pressed into my back, and whispers in my ear. “Is this from the spanking or because your pussy is still trained to know what comes next?”

I don’t answer. One, because I’m pretty sure it’s another rhetorical question, and two, because I can’t form a sentence that would make sense right now.

He chuckles, slipping a slick finger inside me. At the same time, he pinches my clit with his other hand, and I buck into him. Just as quickly, he pulls his fingers out. “This is a punishment, Harper,” he reminds me. “You don’t get to come.”

He spends what feels like the next hour but could possibly be a few minutes for all I know, alternating between spanking me and teasing my pussy with his fingers—working me up enough that I’m panting and then pulling them out right as my orgasm starts to build. After the third or fourth time, it becomes abundantly clear that he wasn’t bluffing. He’s not going to let me come. He makes me count each slap, and when I inevitably forget, he adds another four. It’s always even numbers with him.

Another few minutes pass, or maybe hours. Who the hell knows? My ass is on fire, my clit is swollen and aching, and my pussy is literally dripping onto the hood of his car.

I get that this isn’t for everyone, and it might be hard to understand why I’d enjoy something that looks like torture. Maybe it’s because I think a little bit of pain enhances the pleasure—like contrasting temperatures in food or blasting the AC so you can disappear into a mountain of blankets. Maybe it’s the way my mind goes somewhere else, and I’m no longer a single mom or my brother’s keeper. I don’t have to think. I don’t have to decide. He does that for me.

The truth is, I’ve been drawn to kink since before I even had a word for it. From the moment I started having sex, I craved roughness. My high school boyfriend obliged me when I asked him to tie me up or spank me, but I could tell he wasn’t really into it. The last thing I wanted was to make him uncomfortable, so we kept things mostly vanilla.

Then I met Matt freshman year, and he introduced me to a whole world I didn’t even know existed. We grew to know each other. He learned all my tells, and I learned when to push back and when he wasn’t playing anymore. It was thrilling, and I trusted him, but it was mostly sexual. We would hang out a little before and after hooking up, but it wasn’t a "talk about your future dreams or favorite movies” kind of relationship. When he moved away after graduation, I wasn’t heartbroken, but I also didn’t feel the need to jump into bed with someone new.

Until Nate.

Nate, who wanted to know everything about me. Who noticed my eyes got greener when I was angry. Who waited weeks before even attempting to get in my pants. And when he finally did? I never stood a chance.

Like right now.

Nate pauses again, his palm gliding over the heat blooming across my backside. “Last one, Dani. You gonna remember to count this time?”

There it is.

Not Harper.

Not sweetheart.

Dani.

My heart soars, and I give him a shaky nod.

“This one is going to hurt,” he says, as if the rest were gentle love taps.

Without any further warning, his hand comes down hard, the crack slicing through the darkness and stealing the air from my lungs.

“Fuck…fifteen.”

The instant the word leaves my mouth, everything changes. The weight in the air softens. His voice loses its edge. “Good girl,” he whispers, his face pressed into the back of my head.

His hand lingers where it landed, rubbing slow circles over the ache until my breathing steadies. He carefully works my panties and jeans back into place, tugging them up before fastening the button.

“You okay?”

He gently turns me around, and I nod as I let myself sink against him. He brushes a strand of hair away from my face before helping me to my feet. My legs feel like Jell-O, and when I almost stumble, he silently slips an arm around my waist. Then he settles me into the passenger’s seat, clicking my seatbelt into place. Before closing the door, he reaches into the center console, takes the cap off a water bottle, and presses it into my hand.

“Drink,” he orders.

This time, I don’t argue. I take a greedy gulp, and the cool water slides down my dry throat.